


Follies

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Crack, Humor, M/M, Nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>When you're dating the Holmeses, it's often hard to see the line between sensible and daft. A few whiskies doesn't help matters.<br/>Stupid, stupid, stupid crack. I'm sorry.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follies

It's been a right awful week for Greg and John. Work life and Holmes life--one bloody thing after another. They've just crossed the line from pleasantly buzzed to nearly drunk, and plan to be thoroughly pissed by midnight.

Angelo gives them a fierce scowl when they walk into the restaurant together for a nice quiet dinner alone.

 

"Where's Sherlock?"

"We're trying to hide from that plonker tonight," says John with a wink.

Angelo scowls again and removes the candle from the table. Point made.

They've become good friends and allies over the past months, and even moreso now that they're each dating a Holmes brother. Good to have someone to talk to who understands. And of course, they've tickled around the edges of one particular topic before, but have never thrust directly into it. Now--well, the alcohol seems to be providing the lubrication they need. John touches on it gently at first, not wanting to exert too much pressure, knowing Lestrade is sensitive.

"Um. So, have you and Mycroft got around to . . . you know . . . the whole sex thing yet?"

Lestrade coughs up half the whisky he'd just swallowed. Wiggles his bum awkwardly in his chair and bends a little farther over the table. Takes another swig and looks at John through half-lidded eyes. "Well, of course, we suck each other off all the time. I don't think he has any complaints in that department, if that's what you're implying."

In response to Lestrade's pliant, yielding posture, John's is erect. And he's eager, insistent. "Come on , Greg, you know what I'm talking about. I don't mind admitting that I haven't really crossed that threshold, so to speak, with Sherlock yet. I was hoping you'd managed it, and could give me some tips, maybe?"

"Oh. Nah. Sorry. Not yet." Lestrade relaxes further under John's reassuring gaze. John's pleased the D.I.'s loosening up so easily.

"How was that gay how-to book you got, then? Helpful?" asks John.

"Jesus, no. Couldn't really make head or tail of it. I'll let you borrow it, though. You being a doctor, maybe you've got a better grasp of the anatomy. I think they used some kind of trick photography, to be honest. Or else all the blokes are gymnasts or yoga instructors. And they all looked about eighteen--I just couldn't imagine me and Mycroft . . . well, you know, he's just not that flexible. Seems like Sherlock would be able to manage just about any position, though, right?"

"Oh yeah. I'm sure he could," John nodded. "Yeah, definitely. And I'm still in pretty good shape too. But, with us--I should say, with me--the problem's more mental. I just can't get past feeling like he's going to be judging me, correcting me--like he'll get really impatient and yell, _Wrong!_ right in the middle of . . ." John's body trembles slightly in anticipation.

Lestrade snorts with laughter and then finishes off his whisky and motions to Angelo for one more. He takes a last bite of lasagne and nods. "I hear you. Worrying about the expectations is really my problem too. Mycroft wouldn't yell, of course, but he might send me a ten-point memo afterward. _RE: Suggestions for Improvement._ He did that the first time I gave him a handjob at his office. I didn't speak to him for a week. I mean, who but a Holmes would send a memo about that?"

"Sherlock sent me a text about the proper use of my teeth once. At least he keeps things brief and to the point. It said:

 

 _J_ _W_

 _Neck: Yes.  
Penis: No.  
_ _SH_

Lestrade giggles and John's outrage disappears in favor of a smile. Then he asks Lestrade earnestly, "But you want to do it, right? The whole . . . uh, penetration thing? I mean, if we're going to switch teams like this, we really ought to go all the way."

"Oh yeah--I really do want to. I mean, I can see, theoretically, how it would be great. It's just getting past that first bit of resistance." Lestrade and John both clench and shift in their chairs slightly.

"So . . . how are we going to make this work---make sure you don't get a memo and I don't get a pompous, embarrassing lecture from Sherlock?"

"I had an idea about that . . . but, it's pretty daft."

John's head is bobbing and he's even more erect now. "Ha--the dafter the better. Even having this conversation is daft, so tell me your idea!"

"We could _practice_. You and me. We could try it out on each other, and . . . then it wouldn't be so scary with My and Sherl . . . We could make some mistakes before opening night in front of the critics. Like a full dress--well, undressed probably--rehearsal."

There is a breathless pause. Unresolved. Tense. _  
_

Lestrade's face goes red and he stares down at his empty plate. "I guess that's a stupid idea. Blind leading the blind, right?"

John is leaking. That is, a bit of saliva is rolling down his chin. _Must be the thought of the tiramisu they've ordered for dessert_ , he tells himself. Lestrade is so vulnerable, so clearly willing to open up, that John thinks it would be a sin to pull back now. "No, I think . . . it could work. It would be good to practice together. I mean, when I was trying to learn to play tennis when I was a kid, I would watch Wimbledon and try to imagine myself doing it, but then I realized you can't just fantasize or watch it on telly. You've got to really do it. There's really nothing like having the racket in your grip and feeling the balls in your hands."

"Not funny, John. Innuendo like that is the lowest form of humour."

John frowns. "Sorry. I say we just do it. Meet me at Baker Street tomorrow around tea time. Sherlock will be gone."

Lestrade closes his eyes, tensing up again. He wonders if this is a mistake.  "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

John doesn't like to be too aggressive, but really, it's time for Lestrade to just take it like a man, so John pushes harder, and then a little harder. "Come on, Greg. Come on--we're almost there. We can't stop now. Come on--for me. For me, Greg."

Lestrade grips the table tight, knuckles white, steadying himself. "Yes, I'll come. I want to come."

John sighs with relief. "Oh God, yes. Me too."

 

When they leave Angelo's they're sated and a little sweaty, but both feel a sense of release.

"See you tomorrow, Greg. And bring that book with the pictures of eighteen-year-old gymnasts."

Greg is giddy and whistling as he walks home, feeling damn proud of himself for solving their problem so brilliantly.

John is practically skipping towards Baker Street, stopping off for a fresh box of condoms along the way.

Angelo clears the godawful mess they've made at his table, then makes a phone call.

 


End file.
